


Morbid Thoughts

by FridayMorning



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drinking, During Canon, Fear of Death, Ineffable Tutors (Good Omens), Late Night Conversations, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26886388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FridayMorning/pseuds/FridayMorning
Summary: One night after tutoring Warlock, Crowley and Aziraphale discuss what could happen if they fail.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Morbid Thoughts

"If it has to happen, and your side and their blessed ineffability gain the upperhand for good," Crowley said without looking up from his glass, "I want it to be you."

Aziraphale blinked and dispelled the haze of the alcohol he had been floating in instantly. From the way he did not slur his S's, it seemed Crowley had sobered up as well. "What?"

"Out of all the buggers up there, you're the only one I could tolerate doing it. If it was anyone else, I couldn't live with my-" He pressed his lips together, forced a thin smile. “You know."

Aziraphale swallowed. They had acknowledged the possibility of failing only a handful of times, and what would happen when they had to take up arms for their respective sides even less than that, but never this. "Dear, tonight I'm not up to the task of fathoming such a dreadful-"

Yellow eyes snapped on him. "I need it to be said." Crowley softened and leaned back into the sagging chair. "Wouldn't you want the same, if my side is the underdog?"

Aziraphale's mouth twisted like he had tasted something rotten. "Crowley!"

"What? Would you rather the last face you saw be _Hastur_ , for example, sneering down at you with all those warts? I know I wouldn't want my last sight to be bloody _Gabriel_."

Aziraphale glared, firmly refusing to participate in such a morbid conversation.

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest. "Don't pretend you haven't thought about it."

Instead of an answer, dead air filled the space between them. From the backroom of the bookshop they could still hear the low rush of cars passing outside. Crowley did not shy from the staring contest, but he did wish he had not taken off his sunglasses earlier. Lying on the coffee ring-stained table, they did him little good against the angel's disapproving gaze.

Aziraphale jutted out his chin. "It isn't going to come to that, and, and-" He struggled for words. "And that's that."

Crowley sighed haggardly and picked up his sunglasses. "If you say so."

“I do.” Aziraphale reached for the half-empty bottle of wine. He refilled his glass, then refilled Crowley's without asking.

They drank in silence and alternated between studying the floor, the ceiling, the walls, and anywhere else besides each other. Their glasses emptied and filled twice more.

"Right, then." Crowley set down his glass and clapped his hands together. "I'd best be off. Lotta- lot of tempting to do still before the night is out." His 'is' extended for a few seconds longer than it ought to have.

"Sober up before you drive." 

Crowley tilted his head back in exasperation similar to a teenager begrudgingly accepting a curfew. "Fine, fine." He snapped his fingers and his voice was far clearer when he asked, “Happy, now?”

“Satisfied that all the night pedestrians can walk a bit safer, now.” Aziraphale helped him gather his things and walked him to the door. They each played their respective roles as if it was a conclusion to an average evening of wine and conversation.

Aziraphale paused with his hand on the doorknob. Crowley stiffened.

"I have, but I think I'm afraid of..." Aziraphale wetted his lips. "I would rather not have you see me like that. I mean, you saw me with the sword in the garden, but that was different, I wasn't _wielding_ it at anyone-"

"Angel."

Aziraphale stilled. "You know what I'm trying to say, dear boy, don't you? If it comes to that, let's not risk tainting our memories at the end." He risked a glance.

Crowley hesitated, then pushed his sunglasses up so they rested on the crown of his head. His eyes were sobering gold. "It's been us together since Eden. How could it be any different then? Would be rather poetic, I think. And you know I could never- you would be the Aziraphale I know, even then. I wouldn't have it any other way."

The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth moved weakly, forming the facsimile of a smile commonly worn by faces that cannot find any other suitable expression for a serious moment. "I suppose you have a point." He opened the door, but his expression kept shifting.

Crowley waited.

“And if it’s… it _won’t_ be, _couldn’t_ be, but if it’s the other way,” Aziraphale continued, looking at his hands, “you must take off those dreadful glasses for me. Get home safe, now."

Crowley let his sunglasses fall back into place. "You can count on it, angel." He patted Aziraphale's shoulder on the way out.

Aziraphale watched him start the Bentley, heard the faint vocals of Freddie Mercury croon out the windows, and did not close the door until the car was out of sight. His shoulder burned, and the heat spread until his chest was a hot, tense mass that made breathing difficult. He squeezed his eyes shut until the sensation passed, and let his mind drift to tomorrow's lesson on Florence Nightingale he had planned for Warlock. Aziraphale sighed and headed to the backroom where Crowley’s imprint would be waiting in the sagging chair. He needed another drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in roughly one sitting around midnight. Hope it strikes a chord with someone. If it does, please let me know in the comments.


End file.
